


Final?

by Electricviolinist



Series: Void [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 02:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6355933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electricviolinist/pseuds/Electricviolinist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Final part of my series 'Void'. Please read that first.<br/>Stiles returns to Theo, but his mind is still caught on the Hales.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ THE REST OF THE SERIES FIRST.

Stiles was stretched to his limit. His legs shook, his ankles quivered, his toes felt like they’d been crushed by hammers.

He held his neck as still as possible, the rope that encircled it, tight and angry, reminding him of its deathly threat.

He’d expected anger. Of course he had. Theo was not a calm and reasonable person. But this wasn’t anger.

He knew he was going to fall. Any second, one of his feet would give way, and the rope around his neck would tighten and he would die. He couldn’t last much longer. He legs were too tired, there was too much pain. He could already feel the pressure on his throat, the way his breathing was forced to be shallow. This was going to be a slow and agonising way to die.

It had been hours before that he’d first arrived back at Theo’s. So long, he might have forgotten he’d ever been anywhere else, that he’d ever lived a life that wasn’t this agony of trying not to hang. When Theo had first seen him, the chimera had stared at him for long minutes, like Stiles were an alien. Then he’d pounced.

He’d pinned Stiles to the floor. Stiles had never felt quite so like a mouse in the mouth of a cat, as Theo, all claws and teeth, had captured him and terrified him and shown him clearly just how easy he would be to kill. It had been a shock of pure terror. It had been the moment Stiles had started crying. He hadn’t stopped since.

The rope around his neck and the tears in his eyes and the gunk filling his face, cutting off his air supply, made him panic and cry and cough and splutter. While Theo watched with cold eyes and no emotions.

Theo’s first actual words had been a furious series of accusations that Stiles could not deny. Stiles had fucked Derek, he had shared a bed with two werewolves, he had been sexually aroused by them both, he might, maybe, have allowed himself to love them. They had brought more honesty and emotions out of Stiles than Theo had managed in months of rape and torture.

Theo had dragged him by the hair to a shower. He had scrubbed him, barely caring if Stiles could breathe in the water. Stiles should hate Derek, because at some point, Stiles had started to feel shame. Which was Derek’s fault. Derek had given him hope and now Theo’s invasive hands, the soap, the manhandling, the fingers where they had no right to be, had had his face and eyes burning. 

It shouldn’t matter what Theo did with his body. He was not a person.

Theo had fucked him viciously against a sink. Stiles had screwed up his eyes so he didn’t have to watch his face in the mirror his cheek was pressed against. This was better, wasn’t it? He didn’t deserve Derek. He deserved this misery and pain and shame and hatred.

When Theo had finished, had covered Stiles with his own stench, his own seed, his own bruises, he’d dropped Stiles to the floor. Then he’d put a foot over Stiles’ neck. And Stiles had wondered if this was his time to die. Now, on the floor of Theo’s blank bathroom, smelling of sex and soap. And stupid Derek was in his mind again, because if he died now he’d never see Derek again, and it hurt. It fucking hurt. Logic be fucked, it made his heart want to crawl away or explode or something.

And then all emotions had left Theo’s face. He’d looked at Stiles with no feeling, no anger nor care. He’d picked Stiles up once more, and Stiles hadn’t fought as he was taken from room to room, though his muscles were a mess of spasms and tingling endorphins. He hadn’t fought when he saw the rope, or when Theo had bound his hands. He hadn’t fought when Theo dragged him to his feet. He hadn’t fought until he’d seen the noose.

Theo had hung it from a pipe. Stiles shouted that no one had bare pipes in their houses nowadays, what sort of shitty comic book villain was he? Stiles had lost control of himself. He’d kicked and he’d thrown himself and he’d tried to run and use his elbows and anything else to get himself away from that tear drop shaped rope. He didn’t win. He knew he couldn’t against Theo, even though his body was desperate to. He had felt every second, the grip of Theo’s hands on his hair, around his neck, the roughness of the rope as it was tugged down over his face, the scratch of it on his forehead and nose, Theo's claws in his arms. He felt when Theo tightened it, pulled it higher until he was on his toes, dangling helplessly in the middle of the room, the sobbing struggling mess he would be for hours after.

Theo had watched. He’d sat a few feet from Stiles, leaning casually back in his chair, and watched.

He was still there. Still blank, still watching, still pitiless.

Stiles cried.

How long would it take to die like this? Would he fall and be strangled? Or maybe break his neck? Or would he die of exhaustion? Maybe it would take days.

His legs felt like straw now, like there was only some accident of physics that meant they hadn’t cracked in two. They couldn’t hold him up much longer. He wanted Derek. He wanted to say he loved him. He wanted his dad. God he loved his dad so much.

Why did the stupid fucking Hales have to get him feeling something again just before he died?!

Theo stood. Stiles couldn’t see much through the clouds of tears in his eyes, the sting of the salt, but he tried to watch him. Waiting for the final blow. A kick at his feet, a final pull of the rope, a swipe of a claw against his defenceless neck.

Theo extended his claws. Stiles blinked, sadness or relief. Claws would be quicker than strangulation. Less pain. Quicker death. Sooner death.

The claw slid over his face. Stiles fought not to close his eyes, to look his death in the face like a man, even as he cried like a child.

“It’s been so long,” Theo said, quietly, still almost free of humanity, “Since you cried for me.” He hummed, and brought his claw to his nose and sniffed the small drop of liquid there. “You know, you’re beautiful when you cry.”

If Stiles could still talk, he would have told him to quit being a soap opera villain and fucking do it. But his throat wouldn’t let words out now. It only had room for ragged breaths and panicked sobs.

“I want you to cry for me, Stiles,” Theo said, “I want you to come and laugh and cry and sing and scream, for me. Why won’t you scream for me, Stiles?”

Stiles didn’t dare answer. Was he getting a chance to live? Did he want one?

Theo leaned forward, and mouthed at the skin below the rope. “Will you cry for me Stiles?” he whispered. “If I keep you, will you cry and scream and shout for me?”

Stiles grunted. He wasn’t capable of more.

“Or,” said Theo, “Do I have to bring that Hale man here?”

Stiles fell over. Only Theo’s hand stopped him strangling himself.

“Derek, right?” said Theo. “You’d cry and scream for him, wouldn’t you? If I made him my omega, my bitch? I could keep him weak with wolfsbane, and whenever you failed me, I could cut a piece off. Would that make you cry and scream, Stiles?”

Stiles twitched. He wanted to kill Theo so fucking much.

“Would that make you beg me Stiles?” Theo asked, “You won’t beg me for your own life, but for a worthless shit like Derek Hale, you’d actually get some fight, wouldn’t you?”

Stiles gasped in just enough air. “Please,” he gasped again, “I’ll … be good.”

Theo stood, a statue in front of Stiles, “You’ll be good? For Derek Hale, you’ll be good?”

Stiles hissed out his yes. The only letter that sounded was the s.

It was the wrong answer. Or the right answer. Theo growled furiously, and then suddenly he wasn’t in front of Stiles. He was feet away, pulling the rope, and suddenly Stiles toes weren’t on the floor. The noose was closing round his throat. He kicked his legs, in search of something, anything, to ease the pain. The strangling.

“You’re mine!” he heard Theo shout, “You belong to me! I took you, so you’re mine! He didn’t want you! He left! You’re my pack! My Stiles! Mine!”

He wouldn’t be anyone’s when he was dead. God he was going to die. He wanted his dad. He couldn’t voice anything. He closed his eyes.

The floor hit him on the side. He fell onto his front and sobbed openly, the rope still tight round his throat, even if it wasn’t deadly, he still couldn’t get it off.  He felt Theo’s weight on him.

“You’re mine,” Theo repeated, a sobbing whisper now. “Mine!”

Stiles nodded. “I came back,” he gasped. “I came back to you.”

One of Theo’s hands grasped at his hair, raked through it. “I know, I know.” The hand gripped, and Theo’s head dropped against Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles might have comforted him, but his hands were still bound at his back. He could only listen as Theo croaked “Never leave me.”

Stiles nodded once more. He could fall asleep here and now, a mess on the floor with rope on his neck and hands and a chimera on top of him. He was so exhausted.

“Don’t make me kill you,” said Theo.

It reminded Stiles of when his dad had explained the way abusers talked to their victims. A cliché. Maybe Theo needed someone to blame so he could be a monster. It would help him to blame Stiles for how he treated him, because otherwise he’d have to accept the blame himself. The blame for turning Stiles into a shadow of guilt and grief.

Stiles only nodded.

Theo stroked him. Like a pet. Like Stiles was a pet he had bound and strangled and raped. And Stiles lay still and let him.

“Come on, Stiles,” said Theo. He stood up, brushed himself down. “I’ll put you to bed.”

Bed. An innocuous enough word, but Stiles didn’t move. He didn’t know what Theo was planning. He doubted his punishment was over.

“Do as you’re told, Stiles,” Theo growled. And the hand in his hair reappeared. Stiles followed it, though he didn’t have the energy. Theo tugged anyway, a little punishment for the hesitation. Stiles, still bound, still with rope round his neck, tried to stop thinking. He’d managed it before the Hales had trundled back into his life. He could do it again.

They hadn’t got very far when Theo’s phone rang. He transferred Stiles’ hair into his left hand and took out his device.

“What?” he growled.

Stiles didn’t hear a reply on the other end. But then, neither did Theo. He stopped walking. “Liam?” he growled, “Liam?”

“Liam can’t come to the phone right now, he’s busy,” said Peter Hale, voice tinny from Theo’s handset, but unmistakable.

Liam stared at Stiles. “Who are you?” he growled.

“Now that would be telling,” Peter replied.

Theo threw Stiles against a wall. “Hale.”

Peter sighed, “Well, that was an unsatisfying game. Why did you ask if you already knew?”

“I’ve got Stiles, you know? If you even think about coming here, I’ll…”

“Do terrible things to him?” Peter interrupted, “Maybe a bit of rape, casual smidgen of torture?”

Stiles put a hand around Stiles’ already damaged throat.  “I’ll kill him.”

“If you do, your own death will be so slow you’ll regret that you were ever born,” replied Peter Hale. “Now, your pack seems to have disintegrated, rather, Theo. Malia is asleep in my car, Liam is discovering what aconite poisoning feels like, your little chimera friends are in various states of incapacity.”

Theo glanced around himself, as though searching for proof of Peter’s words. “My hands are on his throat!” he growled. “It’ll only take one slice!”

“And you’ll pay like you’ve never dreamed, Theo,” said Peter. “I suggest you have him walk quietly away from you, and maybe you’ll get to die quickly. That sound fair?”

One of Theo’s claws dug into Stiles’ neck, Stiles couldn’t hold in the grunt of pain.

The door was thrown open by huge force. It slammed against the wall, cracking violently, and a great wolf threw itself through. It landed on Theo, jaws tearing at his throat.

Theo fell to the floor, the wolf on top of him, but they rolled. Theo’s claws were out, his eyes glowing and his teeth extended. Stiles kept himself tight against the wall as the two monsters tore at each other. Claws flew, teeth glinted, and the two bodies rolled and rolled.  

And he realised coming back had failed. Derek had followed him, and Stiles was going to be the reason he died.

“Stop!” he shouted, “Please! Stop!”

Derek hesitated, eyes meeting Stiles'. And Theo’s claws slashed his throat open.

Stiles mouth fell open in a silent scream of misery. He stared at the look of shock on Derek’s wolf face as he fell to the ground. His heart had sopped when the wolf stopped moving.

The prone animal slowly transformed back into a man as Theo, hands still coated in blood, darted back to Stiles.

“Come on,” he growled, and dragged him towards the door, but he stopped before he reached there. He turned back to the room. “Does the other one not care who dies?” he growled. He shoved Stiles back again, and then grabbed the end of the rope. He threw it over the pipe once more.

Stiles didn’t fight this time, because Derek was dead. There was no point.

Theo dragged over a chair, and forced Stiles to stand on it. He was just tying the rope off somewhere, when Peter Hale fell through the door. His usual veneer of callousness and carelessness had crumbled.

Peter glanced at Derek, lying still on the floor. “Stupid boy,” he muttered. “We had a plan.”

Theo was back beside Stiles before Peter had finished talking. “If I tip this chair Stiles will fall and his neck will break.”

Peter turned his cold glare back on Theo, “You killed my nephew and you think I care about a human brat? He once set me on fire, you know.”

“I will do it!” said Theo. “You can’t save him and yourself.”

“But I can kill you,” said Peter, “Sounds much more fun to me.”

Theo’s hand was on the chair. Peter held his eye contact, and Stiles stared at Derek while his head rang with the blood in his ears.

Moments passed.

Stiles felt the chair be knocked from under him. He dropped, but the rope never tightened as strong hands caught him before the rope got taught. He heard Theo’s pleased sound. He’d won. While Peter held Stiles, he was defenceless.

Theo raised his claws.

The sound of the gunshot rang loud through the room.

Stiles didn’t really react. Derek was over there, dead. Why would he look anywhere else?

“Nice timing,” said Peter. Stiles heard his claws slash through the rope above Stiles’ neck.

Theo crumpled to the floor as someone grunted.

Someone familiar.

Stiles’ eyes were dragged from Derek’s face.

“Dad?”

John Stilinski looked at his son with sad and tired eyes. “I love you, kid,” he said, “But you’re gonna be in so much trouble when I get you home.”

“Dad,” Stiles repeated stupidly. “Derek…”

Peter put him down on the floor.

“He shouldn’t be dead,” said Peter, slicing the rope on Stiles’ wrists “You have to go pretty fucking deep to kill a werewolf. You basically have to rip out their throat.”

Stiles fell across the room to Derek’s side.   

“Derek?” he whispered.

His dad’s soothing presence moved up behind him. It was the best thing in the world, but Derek…

He gripped his dad’s shirt and cried like a baby. Wild screams of misery, howls of grief and agony. His dad wrapped his arms right around him. He held him close. Called him ‘kid’ and ‘son’ and told him he had him. He did. His arms were around Stiles. He cooed softly as he held Stiles like a child. Then his voice changed.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

Stiles turned in time to see Peter Hale dig his claws into Derek. He screamed like a banshee.


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, werewolves need to wound themselves a second time to get themselves healing. If Stiles had remembered that over the sight of Derek bleeding and still, he probably would have managed to scream slightly less.

He decided he wasn’t going to let go of Derek again. Because Derek was an idiot who did stupid things like nearly dying, he didn’t get to go anywhere without Stiles. Ever. He would have a relatively unfashionable and completely non-negotiable Stiles accessory wherever he went. For the rest of their lives.

And Peter would have to come too, because though Stiles was going to keep an eye to beat all eyes on anyone ever on Derek, Peter was the one who actually had a clue how to stop people dying. And not scream and be turned into a sobbing mess of uselessness.

When he woke up, Derek blinked at him groggily for a few moments, before throwing his arms around Stiles. Maybe he wanted a Stiles shaped perma-accessory. He did have terrible taste in most things.

“You’re an idiot,” Stiles grumbled, angrily.

“Pot, kettle,” Derek murmured.

“Hate you,” said Stiles.

“Liar,” said both werewolves.

“Jesus, Stiles,” said his dad.

OK, so they were going around in a permanent foursome. It would be totally normal. A teenager, his cradle-snatching boyfriend, his dad and a creepy zombie werewolf. It could be an eighties sitcom. Unconventional family made good. With more fangs. It would be epic, but charming. And when Stiles was less of an emotionally incompetent mess he would totally get a career as a TV producer. This shit was gold.

“Here,” said Peter, interrupting Stiles’ brain mess. He held something that looked like a sheet. Stiles barely spared it a glance, because Derek, but Derek took it. He wrapped it around Stiles, and scooped Stiles closer.

Peter sighed at them. It was dramatic and very obviously more for their benefit than his own.

“You’d think, as the actual saviour of the day, I would be the one getting some gratitude around now,” he said, in a clear voice. "But no, my nephew has the abs."

Derek snorted. Stiles’ dad made a slightly unimpressed sound. Stiles reached back with his fingers, keeping one hand attached to Derek like it would be forever, and grabbed at Peter’s shirt which he used to pull Peter closer.

“Oh,” said Peter.

Surprise from Peter Hale. That made Stiles feel pretty smug. He let go of Peter, and pulled his dad in too. A surrounding of people who he loved. Centre of a triangle.

“We’re here, kid,” said his dad. “Though, I’d rather we were at home.”

Stiles nodded, but pulled them all closer with frantic hand movements anyway.

After some long moments, he asked, “Uh, did you poison Liam with aconite?”

“Just a bit,” Peter mumbled.

“Will he survive?” Stiles enquired.

“Yes,” said Peter, “It’ll hurt quite a lot though.”

Stiles shrugged. That was OK.

“How do we make sure _he_ doesn’t come back?” asked Stiles’ dad. Stiles didn’t need to wonder who he was asking about.

Stiles heard Peter sigh, “Hero and clean up team. And not even a fuck at the end of it.”

Stiles’ dad choked on nothing.

“Derek, maybe you could put Stiles in the car?”

Derek scooped Stiles up into his arms without question. Stiles frowned. Generally doing as Peter instructed would be a bad, bad thing. But he’d argue that later. Maybe. Derek was totally distracting.

Stiles was taken outside, to a car. Derek opened the back door, and put Stiles down on the back seat. When Derek tried to stand, Stiles grabbed on. “No!” he shouted, “I’m your permanent Stiles-accessory so you don’t die!”

Derek gave him the confused look. It was sweet, but meant he needed more information.

“You aren’t allowed to go anywhere in case you die again,” said Stiles. “End of argument.”

“Who’s arguing?” asked Derek.

“You are!”

Derek put a hand on his cheek, “Stiles, I’ve got to help Peter. I can’t let him do this by himself.”

Stiles blew a raspberry.

“Stiles… we have to set fire to the house.”

Stiles’ eyes widened.

“It’s the only way to be sure he can’t come back,” said Derek, “He’s a chimera. We have no idea what they can come back from.”

“But… you!” Stiles whined.

Derek nodded, “I won’t be long,” he said, “I promise. And your dad’s here.”

The front passenger door opened. Stiles saw his dad climb into the car and look at Derek suspiciously.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” said Derek.

Stiles glared at him. He hated him sometimes.

Derek pulled back, and closed the door, sealing Stiles into the car. Stiles watched him go, miserably.

“So,” said his dad, “There are easier ways of coming out, son.”

Stiles blinked at him. “I’m gay,” he said. “Or bi or something. Maybe, is pansexual a thing? I mean, that doesn’t mean you find literally everyone attractive, does it? Oh, Malia’s here.”

She was. She was asleep, leaning against the other window. She looked much the same as she had before, when she and Stiles had slightly awkward, aggressive sex.

“Right,” said his dad. “Peter says she’ll wake up in a few hours.”

“Yeah,” said Stiles.

He looked at the sleeping girl. He was pretty pleased she was asleep. He would have no idea what to say to her otherwise.

“Son,” said his dad.

Stiles looked at him. His dad. Did his dad know he was a murderer? Was he going to arrest him?

The sheriff had turned in his seat to look directly at Stiles.

“Son, you have not done anything wrong. You know that right?”

‘Instant tears sprung to Stiles’ eyes. “’m sorry,” he managed.

“No, Stiles,” said his dad. “I know what happened with Donovan, and what happened with Scott and, Stiles, you did nothing wrong.”

“Did…”

“No, you didn’t!” His dad didn’t shout. He used his authoritative voice though. The calm and reasoned one.

“Dad,” Stiles whispered, “I killed…”

“No, you protected yourself, and you made the best decisions you could have.” The sheriff made uncompromising eye contact. “Until you went to that psycho.”

Stiles closed his eyes.

“Stiles, I love you,” said his dad. “I will always love you. Even if you had gone out and meant to kill Donovan, I would still love you.”

“That’s not…”

“Not what happened, I know.” The sheriff put a hand on his knee. “I know you.”

Stiles nodded through the tears.

They didn’t say anymore. They sat in silence and waited for the Hales. There was a smell of smoke before Derek and Peter reappeared. Stiles shuffled into the middle seat to allow Derek to sit next to him, and then put his legs over Derek’s and his clung to his arm.

Peter climbed into the front seat. He made eye contact with Stiles in the rear-view mirror and nodded.

He drove them somewhere. Stiles was asleep before he arrived.

***

Stiles awoke to an empty bed, but a familiar one. His childhood bed. In his bedroom. Just as he’d left it so long ago. The same dirty clothes on the floor, the same unfinished homework dotted about, the same notes on chimeras and desert wolf sightings, and any information he could find at the time on Theo. He would burn those ones now.

It was like this room had been part of another life. He remembered each item and exactly why it was in the place it was, but not one of them felt like it belonged to him. He was not the excitable and curious son of a sheriff any more. He was a mess.

He didn’t really know what he was.

He got out of bed with hesitation. He did not know what he would find. In his stomach he could feel a tightening. They had taken him to his dad’s house. Why there? They were staying at the motel place. The Hales had left him.

He found some clothes, some old things from before that fit well enough. Then he opened his door cautiously. He could hear the TV downstairs, and not much else.

One of the other doors opened. The guest room. Stiles stared.

Malia walked out. She didn’t seem as nervous as Stiles, but when she saw him, she stopped.

Stiles stared at her.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi?” she replied. It was a question, not a greeting.

Stiles didn’t have an answer. Or anything else to say. So he went downstairs.  He could hear Malia behind him, but neither tried to talk.

He followed the sounds to the TV in the living room. But there, he just stopped. While the door wasn’t open, he could pretend the Hales were still there. Once he opened it, and saw his dad sat alone watching some daytime crap. That was his future. Watching daytime TV with his dad.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Malia.

Stiles didn’t look at her. “I’m not waiting,” he said. “I’m procrastinating.”

Malia screwed up her nose. “Why?”

“Because…” said Stiles.

Malia waited for more words. Stiles rolled his eyes, and opened the door.

His dad was looking at him with a serious face. “Alright, kid?” he said.

Stiles pretended his heart hadn’t just plummeted to the floor and squashed. That he didn’t see a life where the highlights were Netflix and laundry ahead of him.

“Yeah,” he said. It sounded hollow.

He went to sit next to his dad, sprawled on the couch. He set his eyes on the TV.

“You hungry?” his dad asked.

“Nah,” said Stiles. “Are you?”

“Well, we got take out coming,” said Dad, “You think you can build up your appetite?”

Stiles shrugged. Someone on the TV looked mournfully into the distance. Malia rolled her eyes and went on her way.

“So, Malia’s staying until she makes a decision,” said dad, “I’ve told her she can go back to Mr Tate if she wants, or stay if she wants.”

Stiles nodded, but frowned.

“I know,” said his dad, “I don’t think she’ll stay. I mean, would you?”

Stiles shrugged again.

There was something that passed for action on the TV, and his dad went quiet for a while. Stiles tried to watch. If he was going to be watched this for the next fifty years of tedium, he should probably figure out plots and stuff.

“I mean, she might,” said his dad. “I guess Peter’s actions… you know…”

Peter. Peter had saved his life. And Derek’s. Stiles’ heart ached.

“You should have come to me straight away, Stiles,” said his dad, “You know that, right?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Yes,” said his dad. “There is nothing more important than you.”

Stiles looked away.

“What happened to Liam?” he mumbled.

“We dropped him off at his mom’s,” said dad. “He’ll be OK.”

“Right,” said Stiles.

He didn’t say ‘what do I do now?’ He just thought it.

The door opened a few minutes later. Stiles blinked at how quick his heart started to race.

“You wanna eat in here?” his dad asked.

Stiles jumped up and sprinted to the hallway. He stared at the man who opened the door.

Derek Hale, arms full of take-out bags, stood in front of the door and stared back. His pale eyes glued Stiles to the spot, and Stiles nearly whimpered.

“Oh for…” Peter groaned, “Can you do the long lost lovers routine while we eat. It’s getting boring.”

He took the bags from Derek, and pushed past him. He greeted Stiles’ dad and called Malia. Stiles and Derek kept looking at each other.

“Get on with it, Stiles,” called his dad.

Stiles ran forward and threw himself into Derek’s arms.  Derek held him so tightly Stiles thought he would never let go.

“I thought you’d left,” said Stiles.

“Then you know a fraction of what I felt when you left me,” said Derek.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said to his left shoulder.

“God, Stiles,” Derek groaned.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles repeated.

Derek pulled him even closer.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Derek whispered.

“You better not,” said Stiles.

“You neither?” Derek asked. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t…”

“Never,” said Stiles. “I told you. Permanent Stiles accessory. Never to be removed.”

A breathy laughed escaped Derek.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“No,” said Stiles.

“OK, wanna sit together and watch your dad and my uncle make slightly awkward small talk?”

Stiles smiled. Sitting with Derek, Peter and Dad and eating take out would be good. Would be better if Scott and Allison were there. And Lydia. And Isaac. And if he’d never killed Donovan. But eating take out with the weird-ass family would be a nice second place. He nodded.

He didn’t let go of Derek as they went into the living room. Malia looked at them strangely and sat in a chair. Peter sat on another with a smile. They sat on the couch next to Stiles’ dad and accepted the boxes of Chinese that were shoved at them. They all settled, Stiles pushed up against Derek’s side, Derek’s arm around him. The TV show continued.

Peter groaned and changed the channel.

Stiles leaned his head against Derek’s shoulder.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Marble Eyes, you did not come up with this storyline. I wrote it before our conversation, then sulked when I got your text. I'm still sulking.


End file.
